


Runnin' Back for More

by Lurea



Series: Fool Me Once [8]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rare Pairings, Slow Burn, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-06 10:09:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17343377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurea/pseuds/Lurea
Summary: Deacon raised his eyebrows.  "Obvious much?" he asked, giving the words a hard edge.MacCready didn't say anything for a long moment.  Then:  "But here you are."





	1. Everybody's Somebody's Plaything

MacCready shifted uncomfortably on the cracked plastic of Hancock’s sofa. They were at it again, fussing over some missing Jet or something. “If you were here, instead of out with _her_ , we wouldn’t be having these issues,” she snarled and MacCready winced in sympathy. 

“Little girl, if you can’t count, then I don’t know what the hell I was doing when I made you my second-in-command,” he snapped back. 

“Obviously you were high and you know what? You can fix that anytime, Hancock!” Fahrenheit stormed over to the door and out, slamming it behind her. 

Hancock stood for a moment, looking after her and then threw himself down onto the couch. “Shit!” he said moodily. 

MacCready looked up and raised his eyebrows. “Sorry, man. You want me to leave?” 

Hancock picked up a Jet inhaler and then set it back down again. Sighed and then picked up a whiskey bottle and took a slug. “Nah. We have these little set-tos every now and then. She’ll be back. She gets upset when I’m away.” He shoved the drugs to one side and propped his feet up on the coffee table. 

“She sounds, uh, maybe, jealous about Blue.” 

Hancock raised non-existent eyebrows, which was a strange sight but the movement of the muscles gave the same effect. “We’re not romantic, MacCready. She’s like my kid sister.” He started chuckling and tipped up the bottle again. “Besides, don’t tell me _you_ were gonna give me relationship advice.” 

MacCready flushed. “What do you mean by that?” 

“Atom Cats? A certain spy with sunglasses and a leather jacket? Ring any bells?” Hancock’s voice was sardonic. 

MacCready closed the magazine and set it carefully back onto the table. Couldn’t quite meet Hancock’s knowing black eyes. “There’s nothing going on. He doesn’t even know who he is most of the time,” he said, trying to keep the words neutral, but feeling a flash of resentment nonetheless. Deacon had lied to him from the very start, and MacCready had bought it all, swallowed it down like the world’s most gullible sucker. 

Hancock leaned back against the sofa back with a show of nonchalance. “Yeah? So who was it got drunk, climbed on a stage and yelled out their feelings for all the world and the Atom Cats to hear?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” MacCready said bitterly and Hancock gave him another look. There was an empty clean glass on one of the side tables and Hancock picked it up and held it out to him. MacCready hesitated and then nodded and Hancock poured a couple of fingers worth. Just a sip, was all he’d have. He didn’t mean to say anything more, because he—eck, the last thing he wanted was people feeling _sorry_ for him, but— 

He took a burning sip of the whiskey, words spilling out before he could stop them. “He was lying to me from day one, he admitted it. Even before any of us met Blue. So he sure was not the person that I thought he was. Go ahead and call me an idiot, not like I haven’t been telling myself that.” 

“I wouldn’t say that necessarily,” Hancock said slowly, an uncharacteristic note of caution in his tone. “MacCready... I’ve been hanging around Goodneighbor for a while now, you know? Had dealings with Deacon too. And in all those years, I’ve only seen him messed up,” he hesitated and looked up toward the ceiling. “Two-three times maybe? Before that night at the Atom Cats. And never that... out of it.” 

MacCready took another sip of whiskey and grimaced. Damn. Stuff tasted like paint remover. He didn’t have Hancock’s tolerance so he’d better take it easy if he wanted to be able to walk to the Third Rail later. 

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” he said, just a little disingenuously. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to talk about it— even with Hancock. Sure, he’d like—love!— to believe that he was something special, that Deacon was hung up on him. But he, MacCready, was aware of how unlikely that was. He’d fu—messed up, let his temper get the better of him in that whole Mercer mess and he had to own it. But he wouldn’t have lost it if not for the things that Deacon had said to him. Deacon had been stone cold sober and not mad at all. Just as calm as he ever was. 

He’d drawn the line. Him and the synths on one side, everybody else, _including_ MacCready on the other. That was the worst of it. It was....just so final. It wasn’t about getting mad or having a fight. People lost their tempers sometimes, he lost his temper sometimes but if you cared about someone, you didn’t walk away. 

Little Lamplight and Big Town both had had plenty of feuds, arguments, and ongoing rivalries. You fought, you thrashed it out, even punched someone in the nose, you maybe sulked for a few days and then somebody apologized and you made up. If necessary, someone else in the family knocked your heads together until you did it. MacCready had done his share of head-knocking. He’d also done his share of sucking it up and apologizing, or accepting apologies, even when he was still mad, just to keep the peace. And then things got better. 

You didn’t ghost them, ignore them, or kick them out or tell them that they never meant anything to you ever. He still winced away from the memory of Deacon’s cold tone— _"trying being the operative word. It doesn’t seem to work, which makes you possibly the most persistent pain in my ass in forever."_ Remembering the sinking feeling of utter humiliation that came over him, making him want to just walk out into the Wastes and maybe even back to the Capital Wasteland so he didn’t have to see any of these people ever again. 

You didn’t treat friends like that. You sure as heck didn’t treat lovers that way. So wishes and dreams aside, the simplest explanation was the easiest. Deacon didn’t love him. Had maybe liked him, had fun sleeping with him for a while, but when push came to shove, he was done with MacCready. And the fact that MacCready still cared was his tough luck. He’d get over it. He was just glad he hadn't had to see him for a while, since Blue was still gone. 

“If he was talking to anybody, it was Rowdy, probably,” he told Hancock and his fingers tightened on his glass. He liked Rowdy. Never knew her from nobody until Blue introduced them. She was nice...and really pretty. 

And just as obviously, some kind of ex-girlfriend of Deacon’s, or not even an ex, maybe they were just on a _break_ or something, and it was _serious_. It had sure _looked_ freakin’ serious from where he’d been, with her sitting on his lap and taking his face in her hands and kissing him, just as easy as anything and Deacon hadn’t pushed _her_ away, oh no— 

Hancock reached over and pried the glass out of his hand. “Give me that before you break it,” he exclaimed. “Man, you have got a grip, MacCready.” 

Hancock set the glass down and stared at him, shaking his head. “The two of you, it’s like a beautiful, perfect disaster, man. He won’t talk and you won’t listen. I don’t even know why I’m trying.” He straightened up and clapped MacCready on the shoulder. “All right, one more thing and then I’ll shut up. I’m telling you: he wasn’t talking to Rowdy. He wasn’t looking at Rowdy. And my friend, he was most certainly not out at two a.m. stalking and lurking after Rowdy.” 

MacCready stared at him and almost wanted to cuss at him and tell him to shut up. Because no matter how stupid it was, Hancock’s words still ignited this tiny flicker of hope and he’d been trying to stomp that flicker out for _two weeks_. 

“Look, I’m no expert,” Hancock spread his hands out self-deprecatingly. “But maybe try talking to him when something’s not burning down and when there’s no, uh, urgent situation pressing, you know?” 

MacCready coughed and looked away from the other’s kindness. He kept going back and forth in his own head just what Deacon had meant when he'd shown up outside that trailer door. Accident? Mean prank? Some weird possessiveness where even though he didn't want MacCready, he didn't want him moving on either?

Hancock took the nicest interpretation but whether he was right was debatable and as for the whole stalking thing... He hadn't seen or heard anything the night before and there was no saying it wasn’t some strange drug-soaked Hancock-hallucination weirdly starring Deacon. The ghoul meant well. MacCready poked at the Pip-boy in the side pocket of his pack until the display lit up. “It’s almost time,” he said and stood up, hoisting it over his shoulders. “Let’s try being early for once.”


	2. Everybody's Somebody's Fool

Deacon was leaning against one side of the Rexford Hotel, apparently trimming his fingernails with a knife. Apparently being the key word. He could do it but it was harder than it looked, and he wasn’t really paying attention. He was wearing a white shirt with suspenders and fedora pulled low over his sunglasses, and weapons that were scratched and worn and merited hardly a passing glance from the ghouls of the Watch. Just another Triggerman-wannabe looking for a job. 

_Why are you here, Deacon,_ mental-Dez prodded. _You told yourself—and me, when you got the note, that Goodneighbor on Tuesday was the last place that you’d be._ All right, all right, he knew very well that he was supposed to be somewhere else, doing something else, whatever. Too bad. It wasn’t like actual lives were at stake. Take the hours off his paycheck. (Not that he got paid, hah.) He wanted to see if Blue was back, so what? Or—or he wanted to see what was happening in their little merry band of conspirators. 

A couple of the local drifters were squatted by the cooking fire, stirring something in a pot. Squirrel or molerat, by the smell. “Guess what?” one said and the other shook her head. 

“I saw Hancock earlier and look what I got,” he said and pulled out a couple of Jet inhalers. “Private party later?” Smoooth, Deacon thought wryly. He could see the appeal. The other one was cute for a ghoul, still with dark-ish hair and a slim pretty figure. 

She didn’t immediately jump on the offer. “I thought he was out with that general, Blue something.” 

“Well, he’s back now. Him and the merc are up in his office.” He smacked his lips. “You know, the one used to hang out at the Third Rail.” 

Deacon’s knife slipped and sliced into his cuticle. He swore and stuck it into his mouth. Took the opportunity to glance casually over at them. Oh. Now he remembered running into them before. Sammy was a ghoul that looked old and tattered enough to have been a part of the titular pack. The other one was a Hancock groupie. He relaxed back against the wall of the hotel. 

The lady-ghoul...ghoulette?...took a sip of the stew and shook her head. “Never figured Hancock for joining somebody else’s crew.” She glanced up coquettishly. “How many of ‘em has he had by now, you think?” 

Sammy coughed. “You know him, he’s a ghoul for all.” 

She laughed. “All people, all seasons and all reasons!” 

Deacon pushed away a twinge of irritation and tried to think. _Focus,_ mental-Dez said sternly. _Then get out of here._

_Sir did not seriously entertain the notion that MacCready would not be there?_ Brit-butler said with a hint of disdain. 

Well, shoot. He hadn’t _known_ that MacCready would be there until now. Here he was, all dressed up and no place to go. That didn’t seem fair. Besides, it wasn’t as if seeing MacCready was going to bother him or freak him out. That thing at the Atom Cats’ had just been an anomaly. He had things more together now. 

_And yet still a day late checking in on Mercer,_ mental-Dez said acidly. Well, Mercer, or Hangman’s Alley, as some called it, was doing just fine. Besides, he might as well catch up on the news. The Brotherhood was posturing and blustering even worse than usual, and the hearsay was that they were working on the pieces of a big fucking robot. Maybe an Institute-busting robot. Maybe a dirty-snyth-loving Railroad-killing device. Deacon wondered if they would appreciate the irony of using a robot to kill synths and synth-rescuers. He suspected not. The Brotherhood was made up of equal parts of testosterone, fanaticism and murderous nostalgia. Humor need not apply. 

Who would know the robot deets? Well, Blue would have had it straight from Maxson and Danse, and she’d probably told Piper and Nick. 

As if summoned by his thoughts, Piper exited the Rexford and walked down the steps, her head swinging left and right as she surveyed the populace. Her gaze passed over him without a hitch and he grinned internally. Still got it, baby. He wondered if she would stop and try to interview someone but she walked past the assembled transients briskly enough. Hmmm... A woman on a mission. Quick decision as to whether he should follow or not. He thought...yes. 

Deacon pushed away from the wall and sauntered after her, all loose hip-shot arrogance. Slid the knife back into the holster on his forearm, clearly visible against the fabric of his shirt. Stupid place to keep a knife because either it was too light to do any damage or it was so heavy it fatigued the arm muscles. The triumph of visual intimidation over good sense, typical of most guns-for-hire. The combat knife strapped to his ankle was heavy enough to do some real damage and he could draw it almost as quickly as dicking around with the arm holster. 

He caught up with Piper at the next street. She was asking Lou about his salary and working conditions while the ghoul did his best to ignore her. 

“Sweetheart,” Deacon said. “You think any o’ dese guys gonna tell you shit? Hancock’ll have their guts for breakfast.” 

She turned around and saw him and her face lit up and her mouth opened. He glared at her over his sunglasses and she quieted, glancing back at the ghoul over her shoulder. “Whatever,” she grumbled. “I thought Hancock was supposed to be a good guy nowadays.” 

The ghoul looked briefly startled and then coughed. Deacon enjoyed the sight of someone else trying not to laugh in Piper’s face for once. Hancock might be on Blue’s side, and he sympathized with the Railroad but you’d be a fool to let that lull you into thinking he was _safe._ Or tame. 

Deacon rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “I know some guys might know some stuff you’d be innerested in.” He shrugged. “For the right price.” 

Lou frowned and gave him a quick once-over. Oops. Better clarify. Folks selling Hancock’s secrets didn’t last long in Goodneighbor. He put one hand up in front of his mouth and stage-whispered, “Two words. Vadim Bobrov.” 

Lou immediately lost interest. Piper had been shifting about and showing signs of impatience, but finally focused back on him and smiled. Voice a little too loud and hearty but overall not bad. “Really? Um, okay sure. How about twenty caps.” At least she didn’t add, _thank you mysterious stranger_ onto that comment. 

“One hunnert,” Deacon countered. Always show confidence in one’s abilities. Lou watched their bargaining with a tinge of professional respect. Maybe the next time he was shaking someone down he’d use Deacon’s technique. 

Piper frowned and carefully turned her back to the ghoul. Deacon watched her positioning herself like she was on baby’s first covert mission and felt a surge of pride. Blue’s ragtag group was about the farthest thing from stealthy, but he had managed to teach them a few things. Not that it meant shit in this particular circumstance. He was way ahead of her: he’d approached her from the shadows of the balcony and Lou was commonly known to be short-sighted. She mouthed _What are you doing?_ and looked exasperated. 

Deacon folded his arms and looked bored. “Ten seconds, it goes up to a hunnert-fifty.” 

“Fifty caps, then,” she snapped. 

Deacon waggled one hand back and forth. “I don’t know. Tell ya what, eighty, I’ll meet ya in the middle.” 

There was a long pause and then Piper sighed and said, “Done.” Another quick glance around. “Um, but first I have to meet someone, if you don’t mind coming along and waiting for me?” 

Deacon sucked his teeth and said, “Sweetheart, pay me now and I’ll wait as long as you want.” He held out a hand helpfully and ignored her alarmed look. Seconds ticked by and she finally began rummaging through various pockets and pulled out a small bag of caps. 

“Here you go,” she said, and her voice was kinda flat, like she was talking through gritted teeth. Strange. Deacon pocketed the caps, exchanged knowing smiles with the ghoul and followed her into the Third Rail. 

She greeted Ham stiffly and Deacon gave him a jaunty wave. “You’re paying for drinks, sweetheart,” he added. 

She stomped down the stairs and Ham caught his arm. “Almost didn’t recognize you,” he rumbled. “It’s been a while since you were asking about that guy.” 

Deacon shifted out of character smoothly. “Right.” Piper paused, looking back over her shoulder. “Go on, I’ll catch up,” he told her. She frowned and then went on slowly. 

Ham waited until she was almost out of sight before leaning closer and lowering his voice. “He got to town two days ago, and he’s staying at the State House with Hancock. They stayed in the first night. The guards said he did weapon repairs yesterday. Then he came down in the evening for a couple of drinks, by himself. Had Charlie’s rotgut whiskey and grilled radstag for dinner, but didn’t finish it. Charlie said he was real quiet, didn’t talk to no one even though a couple of the regulars tried to chat him up. Just listened to Magnolia. Left alone about midnight, slept alone. Today, he went over to Daisy’s and hung out most of the afternoon. And he’s here now, with Hancock in the VIP room.” 

“Good man,” Deacon said approvingly. “Who else is with them?” 

Ham looked thoughtful. “Not her, the general, I mean. Someone I don’t know and the synth from Diamond City. I heard them talking and him and MacCready were at Vault 88 before coming here. For almost a week. Something about some sickness there. And before that, the boys told me they were talking to Kent in the Memory Den.” He eyed Deacon. “Something to do with your bunch, maybe?” 

Deacon hefted Piper’s money in his hand and smiled. “That’s not a question, is it? You know I’m allergic to questions.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Ham grumbled and stuck out his hand. Deacon poured most of Piper’s caps into it, after a quick check to make sure that she was still out of sight. 

“Sickness, huh?” he said thoughtfully. “Did he look sick?” 

Ham stuck the caps in his pocket and grinned. “Fit as a fiddle. You want I should keep on keeping an eye out?” 

_Waste of money_ , mental-Dez grumbled. Maybe...no. He had to know. Especially if... “Yeah, do that.” He tried to keep his smile easy but could feel it slipping. “I want to know everything.” 

Piper was waiting around the first corner of the stairs. He slipped back into disreputable Triggerman-mode and she cocked her head. “What was that about?” she asked. 

“I could tell you. But then I’d have to kill you,” he said and winked at her. 

She gave him a huffy look before turning and going down the remainder of the flight. The door above them slammed open and they heard voices and loud steps headed down. As they hit the last stretch, music started up for one of Magnolia’s songs. It was a busy night and the place was packed. Eyes turned their way, faces curious and questioning and Deacon ducked his head, avoiding them all. 

Piper walked back to the VIP room and closed the door behind them. “Okay, Deacon. Now give me my caps back.” 

Oops. This might be awkward. “Sure. Later.” Quick change of subject. “What’s the latest from Blue?” 

Piper wasn’t distracted as easily as he’d hoped. “Everything’s fine, as far as we know. Deacon. Caps, please?” 

Deacon walked past her into the room and glanced around. All the furniture had been pulled in closer around a couple of coffee tables at the far end. Nick and Cait were in armchairs, and Hancock and MacCready on one of the sofas. He didn’t see anyone else. There was a little twist in his midsection when he looked at the sniper. MacCready had his head down so all he could see was his shoulders and a fringe of brown hair, curling down his neck. MacCready’s back was to him, he could maybe surprise him, walk over and lay his hand on his neck, touch his hair. Deacon shoved his hands into his pockets. 

Piper snapped her fingers. “Deacon.” 

“Piper, Piper, you know it wouldn’t be...authentic,” he told her, pitching his voice to carry so MacCready would hear him. No visible reaction from the other man. Hmph. 

Cait looked up from where she was curled in one of the chairs. “Och. Authentic, that’s a big word, Deacon.” 

Nick had some papers spread across one of the coffee tables. “Now what?” he said dryly. Deacon crossed over to Cait’s side of the room, ducking underneath one of the strings of hanging lights and leaned against the wall. The old subway tile on the wall was cold even through his clothing. Pointedly did not greet any of the others. There was an untouched beer in front of MacCready and Cait was holding a teacup. He looked around and spotted some empty plates on the sideboard. Too late for refreshments. Story of his life. 

Piper flopped down on a red loveseat with a curved back. The red matched the angry tinge in her cheeks. It was almost cute. “Deacon made me hire him, took my caps and won’t give them back!” 

Hancock and Cait exchanged glances and started laughing. Piper tapped her toe angrily. “It’s not funny! That was almost all my money!” 

“Hey, I can't just walk in and hang out with you guys, you know that,” Deacon protested. “The drifters outside are already talking about Blue’s people being in town. I needed a cover.” 

“Cover, yes. Caps, no.” Nick’s voice held a hint of weariness. 

“All right, all right, fine,” Deacon said. He pulled out a small bag and tossed it to Piper, hoping that she wouldn’t notice it was both slightly different and uh...lighter. Kept talking. “But what happens if you get rolled in an alley and they notice that you still have the money you paid me, huh?” 

“Rolled in an alley—” Piper repeated blankly, looking from the caps back to him. “What?” Then comprehension dawned. “Oh, you better not, you, you—” 

Hancock snorted. “Relax, Piper. I promise you’re not getting rolled in my town, no matter what Deacon says. By the way, hi, Deacon, nice to see you.” 

Deacon grinned. “Sure, jefe, está bien,” he said pleasantly, suppressing a laugh at Piper’s look of annoyed incomprehension. 

Hancock nudged MacCready and he looked up briefly. The grin fell off Deacon’s face as he stared back at him. MacCready didn’t look much different than he had a couple of weeks ago, standing in front of that stupid trailer. More weapons, probably, from the bulges in his clothing, more armor. His cap was jammed tightly on his head and drawn low over his eyes. He was wearing leather armor, a few shirts, scarf, duster over the armor, holster on his hip, rifle on his back, a few concealed weapons, several belts of ammo, a loaded pack and maybe a fucking partridge in a pear tree. Whatever the hell that was. It was a wonder he could walk, much less tote Blue's weapons for her. 

MacCready looked away and folded his arms. Deacon found himself standing upright behind Cait’s chair and forced himself to settle back against the wall again. _Sir does not appear remotely at ease,_ Brit-butler opined. Deacon took a breath and lowered his shoulders, relaxed his posture. 

_That should be second nature, Deacon,_ mental-Dez said critically. 

MacCready didn’t look sick. Or injured. Deacon wondered what the deal was with vault 88—hadn't Curie told a tale about super-diseased molerats or something, once upon a time? He hadn’t taken her seriously then. Hmmm...the caravaners at Bunker Hill would know about any strange goings-on at the vault. He made a mental note to ask, next time he was in the area. Not because he _cared_ or anything. He just liked knowing what the others were doing. 

Piper leaned over the papers that Nick had spread on the table. “All right, now that we’re all here, we need to talk about these requests for aid coming in while Blue’s gone.” 

Deacon was startled out of his thoughts. “Whoa, wait,” he said. “We’re not all here. Where’s Curie? And Dancer-boy? And Preston? And—” 

Piper frowned. “Preston’s still at the Castle. And Curie’s with Blue in the Glowing Sea, Deacon, hello? As for Danse...” she hesitated and looked uncomfortable. 

“Nobody invited that asshole,” Hancock said. He grinned and went on, “Dancer-boy. I like it. I think it’ll piss him off.” He pulled out a Mentats tin and crunched one between his teeth. 

He offered it to MacCready sitting next to him and the other man declined. Cait sniffed. “Put that shite up, Hancock, before I shove it down yer throat.” 

“Doll, I like the way you think, and I like having stuff shoved down my throat,” Hancock said, with a suggestive leer. Cait made a fist and Piper cleared her throat. 

“First request,” she said loudly. 

Deacon tuned her out while she and the others talked about a crop shortage at one settlement, raiders menacing one and (of course) two broken turrets at another. Booring. Hell, if he wanted to deal with administrative shit, he could go to his own HQ. Instead, he watched MacCready keeping his head down, speaking in quick, short bursts and avoiding even _glancing_ Deacon’s direction. His hands were clasped together at his knees and Deacon could see him rubbing one thumb over the other, a sure sign that he was upset about something. Wondered what it was. 

After half an hour or so, Cait leaned back in her chair far enough to pinch his forearm. Fuck. It hurt. He jerked away and gave her an irritated look. "What's wrong with you? You’re too quiet," she said. "You mopin' about somethin'? One of your buddies get reprogramed?" 

Deacon sat down on the ottoman next to Cait’s chair, after unceremoniously shoving her feet off. It brought MacCready almost within touching distance. “No, honey,” he said, pointedly talking to her. “But thanks for asking!” 

Piper cleared her throat. "MacCready, I almost forgot, you got those guns for Hangman's Alley?" 

Mac shrugged without looking up and Piper frowned. Cait stuck her feet against Deacon’s thighs and tried to push him off the ottoman. Hancock leaned over and muttered something to Nick and then they both looked over at Deacon. He suppressed the urge to look around— _Who, me?_ — and smacked Cait’s ankle in retaliation. 

Piper’s voice took on an edge. "Well, I need to know, MacCready. Nick's supposed to drop them off on our way back to Diamond City." 

"Now don’t be mean," Deacon told Cait. "Us normal types have to stick together." 

Cait laughed. “You wantin’ me to stick to ya, Deacon?” Flash of blue as MacCready finally looked over the table at the two of them. Deacon managed to catch his eye and smile, just a normal, run-of-the-mill smile. One that said, hello, how are you, things are just fine here, by the way. _If_ you were wondering. Just a smile between two, like, uh, co-workers, no biggie. No change of expression from MacCready and no answering smile, either. Damn. 

“MacCready? Hello?” Piper said, louder. 

Mac finally looked sideways at her and snapped, “I heard you, Piper, I’ve got the fu-frickin' guns, all right?” Then went back to staring at his hands. They were cute hands, but Deacon didn’t see what exactly was so interesting about them. _Sir could knock his hat off,_ Brit-butler offered. _Perhaps throw a wad of paper at his head._

Cait ignored the byplay across the table. She poked Deacon in the side. "I can show ya where ta stick it, Deacon,” she said archly. 

Deacon stood up restlessly and paced over to the sideboard and surveyed the crumbs. Still some tea in the pot, it looked like. He shifted; the worn blue slacks that he was wearing were a tad snug. Not that that had been on his mind when he selected them. He turned back around and saw Cait looking expectant. Oh right. Banter. He made a kissing sound with his lips. “Hon,” Deacon said. “I thought you’d never ask.” 

He walked over until he could see the papers on the table. What had they been talking about? Maybe he should offer to help with the guns. He could check on Mercer; kill two birds with one stone. 

"Deacon, you’re blocking my light.” Piper waved a hand at him in annoyance and pushed his leg until he took a step sideways. “And can you two pay attention? We’re talking about a better supply route to the Castle." She chewed on the end of her pencil and looked down at the crudely-drawn map that she'd laid out across the coffee table. 

"Let Preston figure that out,” Deacon said and received several doubtful looks from the others. 

“He’s busy enough at the Castle,” Piper said absently. She traced along the coastline to the upper edge of the map and drew a small house labeled _Nakano._

“Hmmm..." Deacon said, looking over her shoulder. "You're missing a road." He tapped the south-east portion, on the far side of the table. "Right here. Down from County Crossing and then curves around that satellite array, and heads toward Revere." 

"Revere?" Cait snorted. "What's the fuckin' point? Not like anyone can use it, between the muties and the raiders." 

"Knowledge is its own reward, Caity-Cait," he said loftily. He knelt down on the floor to draw it in and had to stretch over the table to finish the last portion. Was that bridge next to County Crossing still intact? Kneeling brought him closer to where MacCready was sitting and he snuck a quick glance to one side. MacCready was picking at a scrap of loose skin on his finger. His fingernails were bitten down to the quick. Deacon almost missed the quick flick of MacCready’s eyes over to him and then back down. MacCready’s shoulders were hunched underneath the straps of the pack. 

Deacon stretched forward again and added a smiley face inside a house for Finch Farm. Abraham was a sympathizer, although his bone-headed sons didn’t know that. Then he sat back on his heels and indicated the map again. "Blue's gonna have to clear that area out some time. Wonder if we could get the mutants and the raiders fighting." 

Nick leaned over and frowned. "That's a good thought. If we aimed a few missiles at one set, maybe they’d think the others did it. That might be worth a try." 

Deacon yawned and then straightened up, still on his knees. Quick flickering glance from MacCready and Deacon stretched and twisted until his back popped and then he groaned theatrically. "Ah, that's better." 

MacCready shifted in his seat and then half-turned away from them toward the door. Deacon wondered if he was looking for someone. Not Blue. He didn’t think any of them were sure when she would be back. He lifted his arms over his head and stretched upward. 

Cait leaned forward and swatted at Deacon's arms in annoyance. “Get those out of me way, Deacon." 

"Oh Cait," he sighed. "You know you love me." Deacon lowered them slowly, pausing to roll his shoulders for effect. 

Cait said "Sure, boy," and pushed him hard, catching him off-guard so that he fell backward onto the floor between the table and the couch, practically at MacCready’s feet. 

He banged his elbow on the corner of the table and his suspenders slid off his shoulders. His elbow ripped through the worn cloth of the sleeve and sent an uncomfortable wave of tingles rolling down his arm. Right on the funny bone, damnit. Cait started laughing. Did she know how hard it was to find Pre-war formal wear in decent condition? 

"God damn it, Cait." He sat up slowly, nursing his elbow with one hand and trying to smooth down his shirt, then pulling his suspenders back up. Glanced MacCready's direction behind his sunglasses and caught him staring straight at him, jaw tight. MacCready leaned forward and his eyes drifted down Deacon's body, from the white shirt, to his belt and the blue slacks. Deacon realized abruptly that MacCready was _checking him out_ and the knowledge made him swallow hard. He tried to will certain parts to stay inconspicuous. _Not a good time, Mr. Happy._ His dick wasn’t listening to him. 

MacCready's eyes jerked up to his face and even though he shouldn’t be able to tell that Deacon was watching from behind his sunglasses, the other man still flushed, looking away guiltily. Deacon stared at him until Mac’s eyes darted back and then licked his lips thoughtfully, watching for a reaction. And there most definitely was one. 

Piper dropped a notebook on the table with a slam, distracting him. "Deacon, Cait," she said with exaggerated sweetness. "If you're having trouble concentrating, feel free to take your list and leave." 

Nick picked up one of the papers on the table and scowled at it. "What's this next bit about, Piper?" He asked. "Supplies for the Brotherhood?" 

Hancock growled. "What the hell? I ain't supplying nothing to those jerks." 

“I hear you,” Piper said evenly. “But Blue’s not here and they want an answer. Or we’re gonna find that they just start taking what they want. We need to discuss it.” 

Deacon was silently willing MacCready to look at him. Mac was leaning forward with his head ducked down, shoulders bowed. He clasped his hands together, glanced Deacon’s direction once more before his eyes slid quickly away. "Well, you guys figure it out," he said hurriedly. "I'll get those guns." 

Piper nodded. "Good idea." Hancock waved and Nick muttered and MacCready moved over to the door. Put his hand on the doorknob and then paused. Glanced back toward the table and met Deacon’s eyes. Deacon was still watching him. He held his gaze steadily for several seconds, then he squared his shoulders and left. 

Deacon straightened up and sat down on the cushion that MacCready’d just vacated. It was warm from his body. Concentrated on trying to convince his dick that nothing was happening. That was a vain effort. 

Cait reached over to grab one of the papers. "If they need these bloody supplies, then we need ta get 'em. It’ll help Blue in the end anyway, Brotherhood or not." 

"Listen, hon, they think I'm an animal. Now in bed, sure, but it's damned rude to say." Hancock pulled out a Jet inhaler and pulled off the cap. Deacon watched him take it hungrily. Think about something else. Anything else. 

Think about MacCready staring straight at him, like a challenge or... Or an invitation. Deacon stared down at the VIP room's dirty carpet and shifted uneasily. He really shouldn’t be thinking like that. Or you know what? Maybe he should. He’d considered offering to help with the guns, right? Just a totally platonic, good team player kind of thing to do. Crap. Even he couldn’t convince himself that that was all it was. 

What should he do?


	3. It hurts but I come runnin' back for more

_Sir should not_ , Brit-butler agreed. _It would be a bad idea. Most...impetuous._ Deacon abruptly made up his mind. Grabbed the paper with his name on it and stood up, stuffed it into a pocket. "Fun as this is, and it was fun, believe me," he assured them. "I've got some business to take care of. Catch you later." 

Nick was the only one to look up. Hancock and Cait were still wrangling. Piper kept trying to talk over them while they ignored her. Nick glanced around the room and then frowned at Deacon. "Business? Like what?" He sounded skeptical. 

Deacon smiled. “The super-duper secret kind," he said smoothly. Nick quirked one eyebrow at him and Deacon waggled his fingers. "Ciao!" 

Piper looked up briefly, looking distracted and waved. Deacon ducked out, wondering if he'd meet anyone else on the way in. Like Danse, who was just the type to crash in where he wasn’t wanted. He strolled up the stairs like he had all the time in the world, like it made sense to be following MacCready. Instead of being more like, uh, cleaning a wound in salt water _and_ vodka. 

He didn't see anyone but Ham, who acknowledged him with a quick gesture toward the exterior door. Deacon nodded back shortly. He stepped out into the streets of Goodneighbor, flanked by two of the neighborhood watch, just underneath the balcony where Hancock made his official appearances. Lou was gone, he noticed, which was a good thing, since he hadn’t considered how to explain his reappearance. 

_Careless, Deacon,_ mental-Dez chided. 

It was dark even with the streetlights, the moon a quarter waning, relentlessly eaten away by the passing days. The night air was pure Goodneighbor, warm appetizing cooking smells from the campfires, mixed with urine, garbage and a faint hint of decay. Quick survey showed no one—no, wait. Approximately eleven o'clock, a familiar silhouette was headed down a dark alley. Deacon found himself thinking that was superfluous—weren't all the alleys in Goodneighbor dark? 

The nearest watchman shifted impatiently and made a shooing gesture. "Move it along, buddy. Behave." Deacon had been through here dressed as a drifter a few too many times, and the increased visibility from hanging out with Blue didn't help either. Nice to see the current get-up did the job. He drew the fedora low over his eyes, like a fake ceiling to shut out the limitless sky. 

That particular alley dead-ended against some of the crude walls that surrounded Goodneighbor and no one had re-emerged. Deacon stepped down from the vestibule and gave his weapons a quick once-over, straightening his waist holsters, loosening his knife in its sheath and finishing with a quick hitch of his pants. Same little shimmy everyone did before stepping out into possibly-hostile territory. It was as familiar as their momma's kiss to the watch and their gaze turned bored and empty, sweeping down the street toward the complement around the corner at the State House and at the hotel. 

Once he'd touched, patted, shifted all his visible weapons, Deacon set out across the street with an exaggeratedly-nonchalant stride. Just another guy, trying to be inconspicuous and failing miserably. Who, me, meeting someone in a dark alley? Never. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. 

The alley was empty except for the blank section of wall and a yellow-painted door. Warehouse, flop house, unofficial drug den—it could be any of those. But— Deacon can tell that there hadn't been a lot of traffic down this alley and there was a splotch of old blood dried on the doorknob, the creases of the palm print still clearly visible. Interesting. He’d heard that Hancock had taken out some competition trying to muscle in on Goodneighbor a few months ago. Hadn’t realized that it had been Mac and Blue. The night was absolutely still. The warehouse might have been left empty as a warning, but he had a feeling that wasn’t it. 

Despite the blood, the knob turned silently and opened without a single creak or click. The room beyond was dark. Deacon stepped inside and eased the door closed soundlessly, keeping his eyes open. Sound and motion to his right, in a smaller room to the side of the entry. It was set up with mattresses, workbench, crude stove. Supplies off to one side on some shelves. All the comforts of home. And MacCready. He was standing at the workbench with his back to him, looking at a gun barrel. He picked up a file and scraped off some of the rust, before tossing it into a bucket of loose parts. An open pack sat on the floor and Deacon caught a glimpse of more weapons inside. His leather armor and duster were piled next to the pack, and he was working in his shirt...er, shirts. There was a battery-operated light clipped to the bench, casting a bright beam on the bench surface that did nothing to illuminate the wider room. 

The outline of Mac’s body fairly glowed against the bright light and Deacon felt his mouth go dry. Now that he was here, staring at the kid who seemed practically naked in a couple of shirts and a tee, there was no denying that he wanted nothing more than to walk over and kiss the back of his neck, take him in his arms... He swallowed hard. Down, boy. 

He leaned against one side of the arched opening between the rooms and folded his arms, and glanced around. No trash on the floor, no unpleasant smells in the air. A wide crack in the concrete floor had been sealed up with some sort of patching compound and the windows were painted black. This must be a regular bolt-hole of Blue's. 

MacCready picked up a pistol, one in decent shape by the gleam of the metal in the light and pulled out the magazine and emptied it. Picked up one of the bullets and tossed it over his shoulder. It flew in a perfect arc and landed at Deacon's feet. He glanced down at it and back at MacCready and only then spotted the small hand-mirror propped against the back of the bench where it could reflect the room. He was annoyed with himself for not seeing it earlier. Smartass. 

He nudged the bullet with his toe, lined it up and then kicked it so that it rolled neatly across the floor and struck Mac's foot. MacCready turned around, arms folded tightly and leaned back against the workbench. Deacon realized that MacCready was imitating his stance, even down to having one knee bent while the other was straight. He fought the immediate urge to change position himself. The little bastard was mocking him without saying a word. His back no longer blocked the light and it glared into Deacon’s eyes, back-lighting the other man and making it impossible to read his expression. 

Deacon raised his eyebrows. "Obvious much?" he asked, giving the words a hard edge. 

MacCready didn't say anything for a long moment. Then: "But here you are." 

Deacon frowned. The brevity and the tone was unlike the other man; flat, almost expressionless. Strange. 

Deacon shrugged and kept his answer light. "I know. My curiosity will be the death of me. Well, me or a cat. I think that’s how the saying goes. Good thing there aren’t any cats here, right?" He took a step forward and to the right, out of the glare and into the velvety dark. He stepped over a mattress, starting a wide circle around the other man. "I like what Blue’s done to the place. Tasteful yet simple. Doesn’t scream murder dungeon. Does Hancock know that she’s moved in, so, uh, permanently?” He moved behind the bench, keeping his eyes on the other man. “It’s nice to see that she’s following my advice and keeping some secrets, even from the nearest and dearest." 

Slight tensing of Mac’s shoulders. The silence spun out for a minute, while Deacon moved slowly around the other side of the bench. Then MacCready said coolly, "Aren't we all?" 

Deacon was taken aback again by the response and nearly demanded _what’s that supposed to mean?_ Instant flashback to standing in the harsh morning sunlight, surrounded by half-wrecked cars and.... He pushed that image away with an effort. He took another slow step toward him, feeling a base predatory desire rise within him. He wanted to rip those stupid shirts off the other man and shove him back against the workbench and kiss him until MacCready wanted him, and only him. As he walked, MacCready had shifted to keep him in sight, watching from under the brim of his cap, his body still set in that falsely-casual posture. Deacon could see the lie. One of his shirt sleeves had come unrolled and was flapping about one slim wrist. 

"Well, I’m a liar. I lie, with some skill if I do say so myself,” Deacon said. “You, on the other hand... Glass is more opaque than you are, MacCready.” 

He was almost close enough to touch him and waited for MacCready to predictably take the taunting bait. Instead, MacCready tilted his head, and met his eyes straight on. "Then why are you here?” 

Deacon smiled and said, “Here? Where’s here? I was looking for the post office, to buy some stamps and mail a package, man, wouldn’t it be nice if it was that easy to mail a package, you get what I’m—” 

MacCready’s hand shot out and grabbed his forearm, tightly enough to bruise. “I asked why you followed me,” he interrupted, his voice tight with bravado and nerves. 

Why, why, why—Deacon didn’t like questions that started with why. He liked feeling a step behind the other even less. Time to steer the conversation elsewhere. Instead of pulling away from Mac’s hand, he stepped closer, to put him off-guard and not at all because he wanted to be closer. “Better question is why you took off. You know they immediately gave you all the pain-in-the-ass jobs. But I guess that’s to be expected when you’re immature and have difficulty focusing on adult conversations.” 

Flash of anger in MacCready’s blue eyes. Deacon welcomed it, the quick impulsive temper of the other man, the one he knew. MacCready’s mouth opened and Deacon readied himself for a scathing response. But instead, he closed his mouth and gave Deacon a long narrow-eyed look that had his stomach twisting into knots. 

Finally, Mac said, “If I’m so useless and immature, then why did you follow me?” 

Deacon’s initial impulse was to deny it, even as his heart rate jumped up a notch. “Who says that I was?” 

MacCready made a scornful sound and released Deacon’s arm. Took a step away to reach down to the pack on the floor. “Guess I better take these guns back then.” 

Deacon didn’t want him to leave, but he also didn’t want to admit it. He was caught in a series of conflicting emotions, with confusion being the uppermost. Damn it. He’d lost control of the conversation somehow. He set his teeth and said, falsely-calm, “You sure you should? Expose them. Nick’s immune, I get that, but how do the others feel about molerat disease?” 

MacCready dropped the pack and straightened up, surprise warring with anger on his face. “How do you—” Stopped and clenched his fists. “You're still spying on me?" 

Deacon couldn't stop the words spilling out of his mouth. "Cute of you to assume that I ever stopped.” Took a breath and added, struggling to keep his tone chilly. “You’re of interest to the Railroad.” 

_Except he’s really not,_ mental-Dez said archly. _He’s about as deep as a puddle and we learned all we needed to know a long time ago._

MacCready shoved away from the bench abruptly. Deacon caught his arm, preventing him from stomping off. When he swung around, Deacon stepped into him and grabbed his chin, forcing it up. "Goddamn it, MacCready," he said angrily and leaned forward until their lips were a breath apart and MacCready’s eyes closed. Then he stopped himself from leaning in that last little bit with an effort and said, “Why were you watching me? Why’d you leave?” 

Robert’s eyes opened, wide and blue and furious. “Why did you follow me? Why are you spying on me, Deacon?” 

He was close, so close that Deacon would just have to move forward barely an inch to touch their lips together. He could drown in the pupils of MacCready’s eyes as he blinked, his short, stubby lashes dark against his cheek. The other man repeated stubbornly, “ _Tell_ me why you followed me.” 

Deacon’s cock was pressing hard against the fastening of his pants, making it hard to think. He let go of MacCready’s chin and curved his hand along the side of his face and brushed his thumb across his lips. “Because I want you,” he said, trying to smile and make it not sound like the words were being ripped out of him. “I want you so bad I can’t think straight. There! You happy? Can I fucking kiss you now?” 

Flare of temper in the other man’s eyes and then his lips parted. “Alright, then.” 

Deacon closed that last bit of distance between them and kissed him, feeling almost dizzy with lust. Ignored the shouting in the back of his head to stop being a fool. Fuck it. He didn’t care. He’d be a fool, if that’s what it took. 

Quick intake of breath from MacCready and then his hands were on the back of Deacon's neck, holding tight while Deacon forced his tongue inside the smooth velvety softness of his mouth. Nipped his bottom lip, tasting like he couldn't get enough of him, the scent of oil and gunpowder, his body warm as a furnace against his own. He wanted to get his hands on him so badly, to yank his clothing off, and bare his skin, fall to his knees and worship him with his tongue and mouth. It's been too long, and still not long enough, because as much as he wanted him, he still knew that he couldn’t have him. This, this would have to be enough, he thought, MacCready's mouth open, tongue tracing along his, and feeling his breathing come heavier through his nose. He wanted all the rest too but he can't bring himself to stop kissing him long enough to do anything about it. 

It was MacCready that finally broke the kiss, pulling away to stare into his eyes, and Deacon can see the uncertainty shadowing them. That starts the clamor up in his head again, the conflict between duty and desire and not good enough and not deserving and oh yeah, let’s not forget how young the other man was, young and honest and open and— 

MacCready saw something on his face, maybe, which should be a really scary thought, except it wasn’t, and opened his mouth. But Deacon doesn’t want to talk anymore, except about maybe how to get naked and horizontal. 

"Oh, look there, mattresses, how convenient,” he said. There's blankets and a pillow on one and that's the one that he pushes MacCready down onto. Definitely one of Blue's places, because she can't stand bare stained mattresses; he's traveled with her enough to know that. Faint scent of soap drifting up from the bedding. He kissed MacCready again and changed the subject. 

“Now tell me what you want me to do.” 

“Deacon—” now MacCready sounded annoyed and Deacon would totally rather deal with annoyed than thoughtful. He kissed MacCready ruthlessly, plundering his soft mouth, tracing his tongue along his lips and nipping at them until Mac started breathing faster and his fingers clutched at Deacon’s shoulders. Pressed his hips against the other man’s and gripped his sharp hipbone with one hand. He could feel how hard he was against him. Robert’s breathing hitched and he canted his hips up toward Deacon. Deacon breathed out and let him rut against him, once, twice before pulling away. 

MacCready stared at him in confusion and Deacon clicked his tongue. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He let his fingers trail across MacCready’s delicious lips, down the fine lines of his throat, let them catch briefly on the buttons of his (outermost) shirt, before slipping down his chest to pause just above his waistline. “Do you want me to take off your shirt? Your pants? Kiss your neck? I’m all yours, baby, just as soon as you tell me what you want.” 

MacCready frowned. “Is this some stupid power play, Deacon?” 

Deacon leaned forward and brushed their lips together, licked the bottom and fuck Robert for being so damn kissable. “Hey. Consent is sexy, MacCready and I’m sorry that you don’t agree.” He stared down at him and said, “You can take off my shirt if you like. See? I know how to play nice.” Hoping that he didn’t notice that he hadn’t actually answered the question. 

MacCready bit his lip and then reached up and started unbuttoning Deacon’s shirt roughly. Deacon held still and waited, hoping he didn’t pull off any buttons—he liked this shirt. Once he slid it and the suspenders down off his shoulders, he dipped his head, lower than MacCready’s lips, until he could hover just below the sweet curve of his ear, breathing out and watching the fine hairs on his neck move. MacCready’s hands tightened on his shoulders but Deacon braced his elbows and didn’t let himself be pulled closer. “Say it,” he said softly. 

Motion of his skin as Robert swallowed hard. “Kiss me.” 

“All right.” It came out rougher than he expected. He kissed the side of Robert’s neck, licked the curve of his jaw and then kissed his lips again. Then he touched his throat, shadowed with stubble to the side and well above his collar. “I want to kiss you here.” Put his mouth down and licked the skin, started to suck and then stopped. “Can I?” 

He could see the movement of Robert’s chest as he breathed. “That’s not all you’re asking.” 

Deacon raised his head to stare at him. 

Robert stared back heatedly. “You think I don‘t get it? You’re going to give me a hickey there, right? You want to mark up my neck, so I have to either wear my scarf or everyone will know, is that it?” 

Deacon's jaw tightened but he couldn’t deny it. “That’s an amazing deduction, good job, Robert! It’s almost like we’re having sex here!” 

Instead of getting mad or distracted, Robert reached up and carefully removed his sunglasses, and then looked into his eyes. Deacon immediately fought the urge to look away. “Fine. Why?” he asked. 

“Because—” _Because you’re mine_ , Deacon almost said, and nearly bit his tongue in shock. “Because it’s sexy.” 

Robert held his gaze. “That’s not the only reason,” he said and Deacon can hear the faint question in the words. He doesn’t answer, though, doesn’t respond to that unspoken request for reassurance. He’s a cold bastard, a screw-up, sheer scum and letting Robert love him would just hurt him, in the long run. He could do sex. They could do that, without getting too many feelings involved. 

When Deacon didn’t answer, MacCready sighed, flash of frustration in his eyes. Then he turned over, and started to move away. 

Deacon immediately wrapped his arms around him. “Don’t go,” he breathed out against the skin of his back. Kissed his spine and the curve of his shoulder-blade, tasted the salt-sweet tang of his skin. 

MacCready stilled and Deacon felt him take a breath. “Then why?” 

It was easier to talk—to lie—now that they weren’t face to face, under Robert’s sniper’s gaze. “Because because. I don’t know, man, I guess I’m just not as, uh, self-aware as you are.” He leaned down and just touched his lips to the fragile skin of Robert’s neck, just under his ear, and then waited, letting his mouth rest there, feeling the pulse speed up, and how Robert shifted his legs restlessly. 

“All right, fine,” Robert said hoarsely and Deacon smiled against his hair, breathing in the warm scent of him, the vibrating tension in his frame. Then he slowly sealed his mouth down and sucked, not too hard. It didn’t have to hurt as long as a person was careful. Methodical. He released, took a breath and blew on his skin. Deacon reached down to his groin, and touched him lightly, on the outside of his pants; he was hard and his hips jerked forward. 

He wanted to wrap his arms around him and never let him go, but failing that, he shifted to a new spot and sucked again and stroked Robert’s thigh, wondering how many pairs of pants he was wearing. Pants, long johns and boxers? Pants and boxers? He let his fingers trail down the inside of Robert’s thigh, remembering kissing there, and didn’t feel any seams or lines. No way he was going commando. His dick jerked at the thought. He let his fingers move up the inside of his thigh until they barely brushed his balls and the base of his cock and Robert turned over onto his back and spread his legs wider. Deacon let his mouth pop free and leaned his head down onto his shoulder, trying to control his breathing. Jesus, those unguarded responses were just so fucking sexy. 

Three spots on Robert’s throat, slowly flushing red and purple, dark against the pale skin. MacCready grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him down to kiss him. Deacon lingered and then pulled away enough to speak. “Okay, now what? Use your words.” 

“Take off my clothes,” he said and he swallowed again, and Deacon had to lean forward and lick along his throat, chasing the little movement, imagining his dick down that throat. Shit, he was getting too worked up, too soon. 

“No,” he said and watched Robert’s eyes fly open. “I don’t want to deal with your stupid ten layers of clothing. You take your own off, I’ll do mine.” Robert stared at him, opened his mouth to argue and then just as quickly closed it, obviously deciding not to bother. He sat up, pushing Deacon off him and started unbuttoning his tan shirt. Deacon shucked his pants and underwear in about ten seconds and then lay back on the mattress to watch him. Faint pink color on his cheeks, and he gave Deacon a quick glance over his shoulder, teeth worrying his bottom lip when he saw him naked already and watching him. 

The tan shirt slid off and then the muscles in his back flexed as he pulled his long sleeve shirt and tee off over his head. His skin was smooth and unmarked. Interesting. Don’t think—don’t think about Bluejay turning his collar up against the chill of the middle of the night. Deacon slid his hand down Robert’s spine caressingly and he pushed back against it like a damn cat. Smooth warm skin and nope, not so much as a scratch anywhere that he could see. (Don’t think about it.) Robert lay back down to start unfastening the ammo belts around his left thigh, his hands moving fast and sure. Deacon ran his hand down his chest, stopping on the way to trace his nipples lightly. MacCready’s lips parted on a pant and his hands fumbled one of the ammo belts, dropping it. 

Deacon pinched one nipple gently, tugged. “Come on, Robert. Hurry up. Get those pants off.” 

“Shi—Deacon, god.” MacCready said, staring up at him. He was yanking roughly at the last belt, and Deacon watched the buckle start to slide free, only to have the prong catch again, leaving it looser but still fastened. MacCready glanced down in frustration and just started shoving his pants down, over his hips and down his thighs. His cock bobbed against his stomach as he raised up enough to get them to his knees and then kicked them all the way off. “Come here,” he said, and grabbed Deacon and pulled him close. 

Deacon let himself be pulled until they were alongside each other on the mattress. Ran his thumb over Robert’s lower lip and he opened his mouth and sucked it in, tongue working over the pad of his finger and god, his mouth was so hot, so wet... He pulled it out and rubbed the moisture all over his mouth, his lovely pink lips. “Now what?” 

“Put your fingers in me,” Robert answered, his voice low and husky. Deacon was pretty much frozen with desire and jesus, don’t come, don’t come just because of the way he looked when he said that, staring straight into Deacon’s eyes like it was a challenge and he knows that he doesn’t back down from challenges. Robert smiled like he saw something on Deacon’s face that pleased him and groped one hand over the side of the mattress. Took Deacon’s fingers and smoothed lube over them and cocked one knee up. “There you go.” 

Deacon had to swallow hard before he could speak. “Right—right now?” 

MacCready’s lips quirked up in the smallest of smirks. “Yeah, right now. Come on, Deacon. Hurry up.” 

Deacon started to lean down to kiss him and he shook his head and pushed him away just a little. “No. Watch me. I want you to.“ 

“All right,” and Deacon didn’t hardly recognize his own voice, so rough and hoarse with desire. “I will. Keep your eyes open.” Then he reached down, to where Robert has his thighs spread wide on the mattress and put one slick finger against his opening. Circled it idly, before pressing, lightly at first then progressively harder, slowly, so he can watch Robert’s face as he does it. He was biting his lip and then his thighs tensed as he pushed down until his finger pushed past his entrance. And Deacon stopped, didn’t go any deeper or harder, pulled his finger back barely an inch and then forward, pressing lightly on his rim as he moved his finger. Robert’s breathing speeded up and he angled his hips. “More,” he said and Deacon grinned. 

“Greedy,” he whispered and looked down where his dick was lying hard against his stomach, a pearly white bead of pre-come dripping down the head. He pushed deeper, angled his fingers forward, thrusting against his silky walls in long smooth strokes. Found the little rough area and stroked over it lightly. 

Robert tensed and gasped softly. “Oh fuck, Deacon, there—I—” He wrapped his other arm around Robert’s thigh and stroked his dick, watching his eyelids flutter and the skin of his chest get flushed. Fine sheen of sweat on his skin, and his blue eyes going soft and unfocused. 

“I want to look at you,” he whispered, ducking his head forward enough to kiss Robert’s lips, and pinning his knee nearly to his chest. What a lovely image he made, so open and exposed underneath Deacon, hole pink from stimulation and his cock hard and shiny. “God, you’re so beautiful, baby.” 

Robert was breathing in quick little pants, music to Deacon’s ears. He _wants_ , he wants _him_ so badly, and not just here and now, like this, but every bit of him, every moment after he opens his eyes in the morning and every time he sleeps and everything in between. _I love you,_ he thought, still kissing him and for a moment, he felt sheer terror, thinking that he’s inadvertently said it aloud, while the back of his mind immediately starts concocting excuses and lies in frantic denial. 

“Deacon, Deacon, come for me,” Robert murmurs against his mouth and his voice was hazy with desire and nothing else, and Deacon’s fear slid away. He shifts over, making room for Robert to reach down and touch him, for them to fall into a rhythm of hands and bodies and hips, thrusting, sliding against each other. 

“Robert, Robert, oh,” he murmurs and that has to be good enough for now, coming with his beloved’s name on his lips and hearing Robert’s voice saying his. 

When he was aware of things again, he was still lying partially atop Robert, sprawled and lazy. Come was smeared between them, messy across their stomachs. Deacon didn’t care. Minutes crept by, or rather, considering his current blissful state, they were probably sprinting, the inconsiderate bastards. Deacon wanted to break all the clocks that he can get his hands on and stop this little instant of peace from slipping away. This moment where he could luxuriate in the slowing thump of Robert’s heart, his hand curled loosely on the mattress, with his dirty bitten-down fingernails and the calluses on his fingers. 

Then MacCready stirred next to him. Warm breath of air across his sweat-damp skin when he spoke, his tone even, almost conversational. “So, what was this for?” 

Deacon was still enjoying the warm bliss too much to immediately put together all of Robert’s words in the correct order. He took a deep breath, willing his heart rate and breathing back to somewhere approaching normal and replayed the words in his head. Huh. He was not getting the obviously-heavy implications. “What?” 

Robert propped up on one elbow and looked down at him. His face was in shadow but for the faint gleam of his eyes. He stopped stroking Deacon’s chest and touched his lips lightly. Deacon parted his lips and kissed them, before imagining one better and tugging him down to kiss his lips, slow and lazy. Robert kissed him back but Deacon can feel the tension in him and knew that he had something that he wanted to say. He pulled back and looked at him questioningly. 

Robert said, “You’re using me, you made that clear enough. I’d like to know, up front, what you’re using me for this time.” 

Deacon’s breath caught. His own voice, echoing in his ears, hard and cold and mocking. _I needed you out of the way for an operation, and hey, you are hot, I wasn’t lying about that. And convenient._

He said, “I’m not—” 

And Robert interrupted. “Is Blue coming back tonight? You want to keep me from going back to Diamond City with Nick? Or is it Far Harbor, what kind of plans does the Railroad have for them?” He scratched lightly down Deacon’s side, across his chest, not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to remind him that it _could_ hurt. “You never told me why Bunker Hill happened either.” 

Bunker Hill. Deacon wanted to laugh. Much as he’d like everyone to believe he’s always the calm collected Railroad agent with schemes within strategies within tactics, the truth is both simpler...and less satisfying. 

“There’s no plan,” he said instead. There was want, there was need, and for Deacon, that was terrifying enough, not even considering the morass that was _love._ Like he knew, after all these years. Did anyone? Maybe they just felt the want and the need and made up the pretty frame. Like the female vampires in Dracula, with their wiles and their lust until Jonathan Harker was ready to destroy himself to satisfy it. Deacon choked out a harsh laugh. He’d tried staking himself in the heart and failed and here it was again, risen from the dead, while Robert touched his chest and asked him what was the fucking _plan._

Robert made a skeptical noise. “Right, so what, you’re keeping it back as ammo? Something to throw in my face the next time we get too close?” 

He can’t think around the emotion clogging his throat, driving him to do something wildly, laughably impractical like take Robert in his arms and....just say. _I love you, whatever that means. And I don’t care if you don’t agree with the Railroad, I don’t care about anything anymore._

_Sir sounds like a badly-written romance novel,_ Brit-butler sniffed. _And not being honest with himself._ Snotty-Brit is right, he can’t not care about the Railroad, but this is the closest he’s come in twenty years to being _weary_ of it. 

“That would be truly shitty of me,” he said to Robert, skating as closely as he dared around the truth. “Also, repetitious and if there’s one thing I hate, it’s unoriginality. So, asked and answered—no.” Sudden whipcrack of pain lancing through his head. “Unless you’re feeling some regret?” He managed to make his tone light and careless. 

Silence from Robert, which Deacon took as a positive while he tried to breathe around the stone that was filling up his chest cavity. He spoke to break the silence that he couldn’t bear any longer, lifting one shoulder in a patented everything-is-okay shrug. “Fine. Reset. Still friends, okay? We just forget this happened.” 

He sat up and groped around for a shirt, found one, fuck, it was Robert’s, groped again, found another of Robert’s, Jesus fucking Christ on a sidecar, finally grabbed his own and pulled it over his head. Pants were easier to find, and he shook them out before sliding them on. 

Robert grabbed his arm and jerked him angrily around to face him. “So now you’re going to act like this means nothing, right, Deacon?” 

Robert was still bare-chested, Blue’s blanket puddled around his hips, and flushed with anger. Deacon put both hands over his eyes to block out the sight of him and pressed until lights started flashing in the blackness behind his vision. Ugh. Imagining his eyes bulging, brain bulging, blood leaking then streaming from his eye sockets as his head literally fucking exploded. Where were his sunglasses, he needed his sunglasses... 

“What are we doing, MacCready, what the hell are we doing?” Deacon finally said, his voice soft. He didn’t take his hands down from his face. 

Pause and then Robert answered, uncertainty coloring his tone. “I don’t know. Do you?” 

Enough. Deacon either got up right now and stumbled out that door, heartsick and alone, or.... Fuck. He was _done._ He dropped his hands and took Robert by the shoulders and pushed him down, flat on his back and kissed him. Hard, and then eased up, moving his lips across Robert’s, coaxing them open, letting his teeth just barely graze his bottom lip, until his breath caught. Deacon had a moment of appreciation before his brain reminded him that he had something to say. 

He stopped kissing him but didn’t move away, not able to meet his eyes just yet. “You’re right. There was a plan every time until Bunker Hill. Because that’s when I decided to....follow you. Because I wanted to.” He hesitated and then continued. “There was no plan then, or now or at Jamaica Plans. That was all just...me.” 

He rubbed his cheek against Robert’s stupid scruffy little beard while he waited for him to answer. Robert took a breath, and said, “So you’re telling me this isn’t just some distraction, or a game or—” 

Deacon interrupted: “It’s also not a ruse, or a scam, or a con or a racket. It’s not a rip-off or a fraud or a hoax.” 

“It’s not a lie, is what you're saying.” Robert’s voice was hard and angry. “You really expect me to believe that?” 

Deacon’s heart skipped a beat and he shrugged. “I grant you all our past experiences point to this being a lie, but....” He had to stop because suddenly his lips were trembling, and his voice was shaking, and he was closer to falling apart than he’d been in years. “Cue the observable signs of emotional distress,” he said softly. “I’m serious and I’m never serious, I swear it.” 

Robert’s face changed and he reached up to caress one side of Deacon’s face, his eyes soft. Deacon closed his eyes and nuzzled down into Robert’s neck. One hand touched his head, stroking his shaved scalp like there was something soft and touchable there and not just cold bare skin. 

But when Robert spoke, his voice was firm. “Then say it, Deacon.” 

Deacon’s emotions were clamoring in his head, wildly contradictory, satisfaction and affection battling with a desire to run, escape, to somehow squirm out of the corner that he was trapped in. He couldn’t even blame Robert because he’d done it to himself. Walked here with his eyes wide open and stepped inside of his own free will. 

He gave in abruptly, shutting up the part of his mind that was still protesting. Then he said, “Okay, well, I like you. Like, I like-like you. You know, and I wanna bump naughty bits and maybe even go out to dinner and pretend to have awkward getting-to-know-you conversation. Which we’d have to make up, because we already know a lot about each other, unless you’ve been hiding more cool backstory from me—” 

Robert put a hand over his mouth, stopping the careless flow of words. “And what about the Railroad?” 

Deacon wasn’t sure what he was asking, wasn’t even sure Robert knew what he was asking. He shook his head. “Compartmentalization is a thing I’m good at.” He was lying because he was terrible at it now; his emotions kept overflowing all the boxes in his mind. 

There was a crease between Robert’s brows and Deacon knew why it was there—he hadn’t really answered about the Railroad and they were still far apart when it came to synths. But Deacon was suddenly sick of the subject, sick of the fear that he would say, do the wrong thing and end up with nothing. He didn’t want to think about the fucking Railroad or where Robert might fit in and how he was going to reconcile the two. What Desdemona would say. 

_You already know,_ mental-Dez whispered. _Your loyalties are compromised. Maybe you can’t be trusted._ He could, though. He would. He could do it. They were all on the same side, right? 

“I meant what I said earlier,” Deacon said, thinking about _wanting you_ , and wondering if Robert appreciated what he’d managed to pry out of his psyche. To MacCready, it was probably no big deal, just another day walking around with his stupid fucking heart on his sleeve. He swiped his hand roughly over his eyes and slid his sunglasses back on. “But it’s not like we’re picking out housewares.” 

Robert’s eyes snapped back to his and he frowned briefly, before his expression smoothed out again. Deacon can almost see the thought _Let it go for now_ pass through his head and it made him want to kiss him again. Shit. _Everything_ made him want to kiss him again. He maybe had a problem. No matter. He could handle it.

“Right, no housewares,” Robert said, his tone adorably snarky. “Just us dudes being, uh, friendly.” 

“Pals,” Deacon agreed. “Good pals. That, y’know. Mess around once in a while.” 

“Sure.” MacCready tipped his chin up and kissed him. “Like what, once a month?” 

“C’mon, I was thinking once a week,” Deacon protested, feeling a little breathless. “But I can compromise. See, I’m glad we got this straightened out.” 

There was a banging noise from the front door, making them both jump. “MacCready,” Nick called. “You got those guns ready?”

 

_~fin~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...this story came about because of this image that popped into my head: MacCready leaving a room while giving Deacon a Significant Look, Deacon following him and no one else in the room realizing what was going on.  
> And then they fuck against a brick wall in an alley, LOL. Short and sweet and fun.
> 
> But once I extricated myself from Fool Me Twice, it was obvious that they would need to Have A Discussion. (I also needed to layer in a few references to Shame on Me, and some foreshadowing....)
> 
> And--Oh my god, I wrote and re-wrote this damn final scene so many times! We need to be on a certain particular relationship standing for the beginning of Shame on Me, and I just kept flubbing the landing, I'm embarrassed to admit. I really hope that you enjoy this scene and don't spend it thinking the boys suck or are out of character. 
> 
> There will be a brief hiatus, hopefully a month or less, before I dive into Shame On Me. It's about 45,000 words as it stands now and I hope will be suitably epic enough to wrap things up. 
> 
> (I've already written one of the happy endings and go back to read it every now and then when I start freaking out.)


End file.
